Page 5 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“Why are you here?” I say.

“Ah … coffee?”

“Are you following me?”

“Pardon?” He lowers his mug to the table.

“Are you stalking me?”

“I was sitting here when you came in, love.” He leans back in his chair and threads his fingers together, low on his waist. “Are you following me?”

I roll my eyes. “Of course not.”

“See? It’s an absurd accusation.”

Maybe it’s jet lag, maybe I’m petty. Maybe he’s an outlet for my frustration at Maddie for ditching me. I keep going instead of walking away. “You were on my flight, and I saw you when I left the terminal.”

“I remember.” He pauses. “Perhaps we saw each other in the terminal because we were on the same flight, and perhaps we were on the same flight because we were both leaving New York to come to London? And now, it’s just a coincidence that we’ve run into each other.”

“That’s a lot of coincidences.”

“Coincidences happen.”

I cross my arms. “That’s exactly what a stalker would say.”

Briefly, his mouth twitches in an almost-smile, but he pins it down by tucking his lips between his teeth. “Wouldn’t I be a rather crap stalker if you’ve spotted me multiple times?”

“Maybe you’re a first-timer.”

He studies my face. There’s something vaguely familiar about him that’s unrelated to our previous run-in at the airport. But I can’t latch onto it. It’s like trying to catch a single grain of sand in the ocean at high tide.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches for his coffee mug and raises it to his lips. “Maybe we shouldn’t make light of stalking.”

“Fair.”

“Agree to stop, then?”

“Fine.”

“Marvelous.”

Ha. I knew it.

“When you walked away last night, you said ‘See you later,’” I say. “Like you knew you’d see me again.”

A single heavy brow quirks upwards, closely followed by the other. They’re well-shaped, darker than his hair, and one arcs slightly higher than the other. It gives him an air of playful approachability. “Is that not what Americans say instead of goodbye? Even if there’s no chance of seeing the person again?”

“Sometimes,” I say. “But you’re not American.”

He chuckles. As he does, his full top lip swerves sideways a bit. It’s really charming. “What gave it away?”

“It’s that contradictory blend of arrogance and performative nonchalance, I think.”

“Fair play,” he laughs. “Did you actually come here for coffee, or did you spot me through the window and decide to badger me for existing in my own neighborhood?”

There’s a tiny chance that I’m the asshole in this scenario. I rub my forehead. “Sorry. I’m tired.”

“You’re quite lovely when you frown.”